


the night is endlessly dark (the moon has died)

by completist



Series: when half of your heart will never come home (BF Angst Week 2019) [6]
Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Banana Fish Angst Week 2019, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Graphic Description, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 22:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17691944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: When Sing heard the news, he was eerily calm about it, like it was something that took a long time to come, like it was a news he had long expected to receive.When Sing heard the news, he didn't break anything aside from the glass he took a long drink from.





	the night is endlessly dark (the moon has died)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maki_maki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maki_maki/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ending the Hegira](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686748) by [angeldescendant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeldescendant/pseuds/angeldescendant). 



> first of all, this is for Maki, whose comment solidified my will to write this haha!
> 
> second of all, [@angeldescndnt](https://twitter.com/angeldescndnt) made me do it. lol.
> 
> not tagging this as yuesing, or buralee but go get what you need ;)

When Sing heard the news, he didn't break anything aside from the glass he took a long drink from.

That was how Akira found them, when she returned from her trip: Eiji, sitting across from him with the hardest expression he has sported in years, carefully removing each tiny piece of glass that lodged itself under his skin; and Sing, staring blankly at the space past Eiji’s shoulders.

He pulls his hand away before Eiji wraps it in bandages.

“I’m leaving,” Sing declares, his voice low and monotonous. He can’t feel _anything,_ why can’t he feel _anything?_ “I will see you in a week.”

Akira doesn’t ask, she never asks _anything_ , just brings out his duffel bag for him and packs him two sets of clothes. Sing stuffs it with wads of cash, then kisses her and his son goodbye. He’ll fetch all that he needs somewhere else.

“Sing,” Eiji calls out, one foot out of the door as if he will follow him. A second passes in silence, and another, and _another._ “Don’t die out there.”

Sing gives him a nod and walks away.

 

 

 

 

They were easy to hunt.

And far easier to kill.

Sing is standing in a mansion somewhere in Vietnam, drenched in blood that wasn’t his. He’s looking into the eyes of the man who ordered the hit, his finger itching to pull the trigger.

“Who did it?” He asks, despite already knowing the answer.

Sing fires a shot to his heart the moment the name was out of his mouth. Walking towards his fallen body, Sing fires another shot to his jaw, and again to his knee, and the other; he shoots him up, up, _up_ his body, his stomach, liver, each fingers of his sinful hand, the dip between his collarbones, between his eyes. Sing shoots him again

 

And _again;_

 

 

_And again._

 

 

 

 

Hong Kong is cruelly beautiful.

How apt, Sing thinks, that Yut-lung was born here—

—that Yut-lung was _killed_ here.

“It’s him, alright.” The doctor, morgue-keeper, whoever the fuck he is, says, and Sing wants to bash his head in and see how big of a dent it will make on one of the eerily cold stainless slabs before them.

“Just show me.”

And it's him, _alright._ Sing already knows it's him before he removed the cloth from his face, knows it just from the outline of his body, from the glimpse his uncovered hand offers, from the way the cloth is raised by his feet; and Sing’s first rational thought in five days is how _merciful_. How merciful that Blanca chose to lodge a bullet in his heart, the same heart he trampled on with his words.

The second was how Yut-lung wouldn’t like for him to look this way even in death.

He orders for the body to be cleaned, to be given a proper funeral. He’ll look for something of Yut-lung’s mother in this country, bury him with her if its the last thing Sing would do for him.

 

 

 

 

Sing wonders, in the six hours he sat shrouded in darkness of Blanca’s hideout, why he still can’t feel _anything._

Then the door opens. Sing turns the lights on and finds Blanca staring at him, the door slowly closing behind him.

Sing can’t feel _anything._

“His mother’s body was burnt. But I know of the place she was born, it might be good to—” He swallows, his gaze momentarily leaving Sing’s— “To bury him there.”

And suddenly, Sing can feel everything at once.

He lunges towards Blanca, unsheathing a knife from his pocket, the other easily dodges, quickly anticipating his next attack — and the next, and the next, and the _next,_ without retaliating, without pulling his own weapon, without throwing even a single punch.

“Was it worth it?!” Sing bellows, throwing his knife that Blanca shields himself from with his right arm. “Was it _fucking_ worth it?!”

Sing throws another punch to his jaw, to his stomach, to his face — none of them made any contact to the bastard’s skin. The same bastard who always shed his coat for Yut-lung and offer its comfort to him, the same bastard who was once sworn to protect Yut-lung even if he had his own motives, the same bastard who once wished for Yut-lung to see more than and past his pride and hurt and _anger_ , the same bastard who pulled the fucking trigger with the barrel pointed to Yut-lung’s heart. “Tell me you fucking bastard! Was it _fucking worth it?_ ”

“No.” Blanca finally replies, his voice small, his words falling flat, “It wasn’t worth it.”

Sing digs his fist to the bleeding arm Blanca is using to shield himself away from him. Blinking past the tears that is suddenly obscuring his view, “Then why did you do it?”

His next blows made contact, to Blanca’s jaw, his stomach, his pecs. Sing feels his punches weakening with every release, his tears feeling heavier and _heavier_ as they fall. Remembers Yut-lung’s voice from the tiny speakers of his phone like a far away memory, always telling him that he could do better in an irritated tone, always supporting him in the subtle ways he would formulate his words. He remembers Yut-lung, like a far away memory, telling him that he complains too much about his son’s diapers yet absolutely adores the little boy. Sing had wanted him to meet his son, would entice him with his little anecdotes of his baby boy so he would finally go back to New York, hold him in his arms and see for himself that he could have this too — that a little more push and he too, would finally be out there in the world.

And this bastard took that away from him.

“Why did you do it?” Sing asks, his voice small and full of pain as he pulls out his gun. He doesn’t point it at Blanca who keeps his own eyes trained at him, full of tears that cannot seem to fall. _Good,_ Sing thinks, _he doesn’t deserve to cry._ “He believed in you and your ‘pretty’ words. In his own way, he became better because you gave him hope that he could be more than what he was. And you killed him, you fucking _bastard,_  you killed him!”

Pointing his gun at Blanca made Sing realize that his hands are shaking, his whole body  is trembling but not his voice, “The Vietnamese hired thirteen capable mercenaries. How were you chosen?” Sing challenges him, taking a step forward with every question he throws until the barrel of his gun meets Blanca’s forehead, “Was it a bidding? Was it a race to who could get to him first? How much was it, Blanca?! Was it all Yut-lung’s worth to you?!” He shoots him on the shoulder and Blanca lets him, “Fucking tell me!”

 _Why did you do it?_ Sing wants to ask, even when he knows that Blanca is both the first and the last person on the short list who is capable of it, who would actually be fine for Yut-lung to do so. Sing wants to ask _did you even comforted him at all? Did you even tried to lessen the pain?_ Wants to ask _what was his last words?_

_Did he wished for something?_

 

_Did you grant it?_

“There were twelve other mercenaries that night,” Blanca says, “They were going to slaughter him so I killed them all.”

Sing hates that he knows he’s telling the truth, hates that when Blanca’s tears finally falls, he already knows the answer to all the questions he’s been meaning to ask. Most of all, Sing hates that he wasn’t there, even if Yut-lung says he wouldn’t want him to.

 

 

 

 

They buried him on a bright Saturday morning, wearing a dress similar to the one he was wearing as a child on a picture Blanca procured of him with his mom.

Sing left Hong Kong on that same day, feeling everything all at once.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/completist_) and [tumblr](http://queen---queer.tumblr.com/)


End file.
